A Switch in the System
by TheAfroCircus
Summary: Sherlock was skeptical. Being visited by a man claiming to not be Jim Moriarty but was actually Jim Moriarty but still wasn't. That he was actually James Moriarty and he wanted to stop Jim Moriarty. Then somewhere buried inside was also a Richard Brook who was actually a bit useless. It's been four years since Jim Moriarty has lost control of James Moriarty's mind.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors note: Sheriarty is taking over my life hkkgdjj. Should I continue this? Idk.**

 _ **Dissociative identity disorder, previously known as "multiple personality disorder" is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct or split identities or personality states that continually have power over the person's behavior. The different identities are called "alters". As each personality reveals itself and controls the individuals' behavior and thoughts, it's called "switching."**_

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 **Summary: Sherlock was skeptical at first. Being visited by a man claiming to not be Jim Moriarty but was actually Jim Moriarty but still wasn't. That he was actually** _ **James Moriarty**_ **and he wanted to stop** _ **Jim Moriarty.**_ **Then somewhere buried inside was also a Richard Brook who was actually a bit useless and annoying….It's been four years since Jim Moriarty has lost control of James Moriarty's mind. This is life after that.**

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 _Consulting Husbands_ : _A Switch in the System._

James Moriarty had never known true happiness it seemed. Everywhere he thought he found it, it was quickly stolen from his grasp.

Even back in elementary school when he first came out as gay. He had been happy to announce his new discovery about himself. He was not a freak and he was not bad. He was only _gay_ and that was all fine.

At least he thought it should have been. His parents were hopeless idiots but at least they partially understood. They did not give him too much hassle about his sexuality.

James was smarter it seemed. Smarter than everyone around him. He was different but polite. He was a good boy. (Most of the time) He was a good boy (mostly) that just so happened to be gay and he announced it to his peers. He thought they would be interested to know that he was embracing his sexuality. It was healthy. It was a good thing.

So why did Carl laugh at him and call him horrible names?

James did not understand but he tried to steer clear of the persistent bully who pushed him around and followed him home, shouting abuse.

It did not bother James so much. But it did bother _**Jim**_.

 _ **Jim**_ was part of James for as long as he could remember. He never knew where exactly this part of him came from. It was bad and always causing trouble, hurting people even.

James tried to ignore him too but it became more difficult as time went on. Jim would fight for control and sometimes he would get it. Jim caused all sorts of mayhem and destruction.

The 'outbursts' as his parents used to call them, got worse and worse. Finally they sought professional help and it was discovered that little James had a big problem.

They diagnosed him with Dissociative Identity Disorder, or "multiple personality disorder" as people called it. He had three distinct alters living in his head. There was James, there was Jim and there was Richard.

James was a rational, kind natured and polite young boy. Everyone found him to be a charming lad.

Richard was a bit of a wreck it seemed. He had terrible anxiety and panic disorder. He was erratic and jumpy, afraid of his own shadow. People thought him to be a bit of a weirdo but it was manageable at least.

Lastly, there was Jim. Where could one start with Jim? Jim was...insane, violent, psychotic, angry…

Jim was a monster and he could not be controlled no matter how much James tried. Jim was always in his head, urging him to do wrong and act out in horrible ways. James fought with Jim for control constantly. At first it was easy keeping the monster from getting loose, keeping him locked away in the deepest parts of his mind. James had been stronger than Jim for years, much stronger.

That is, until the incident with Carl Powers.

James had always been mostly in control of his actions, of his emotions. He always responded to everything with careful thought and with the appropriate reaction for the situation at hand.

Carl's actions were not appropriate. They were vile. They were not thought out at all. Maybe Carl thought he knew what the response to his assault would be. That James would stay quiet about what he did. That James would be a willing victim as he always had been with lesser torment.

Carl made a mistake. He tried to victimize Jim and while James could be a seemingly willing victim, Jim Moriarty was anything but.

James had been in control that day and everything was fine. Things were in their right order. His coming out had gone well. No one was too mean about it and if they were he just ignored it. Life was good. He was excelling in his studies. He would be able to skip a few grades very soon. His parents were proud. He thought he was finally experiencing happiness. It disappeared forever that same day.

It was after gym class. It happened in one of the showers. Carl cornered him in there. Carl laughed and laughed and _laughed_.

It was like a dam burst and released whatever roaring force that was behind it. Except it wasn't water. It was flames.

James should not have done it. He shouldn't have tried to retreat into the back of his mind to escape the abuse. That was where Jim hid and now that he was free, he was never going back.

In the next month Carl was dead in the pool and James had changed forever. No longer being at the forefront of his mind, he now shared control of it with a psychopath.

Jim took almost full control of James whole mind for years and years. He built a criminal web, he killed so many people and had other people kill so many people.

That was when James met the love of his life. Sherlock Holmes. In Bart's Hospital. James managed to gain control for a bit and started to work there. Or maybe it was all part of Jim's plan to trick Sherlock and hurt the man.

There was one thing Jim did not plan on. For James to fall head over heels in love with their mortal enemy.

Sherlock was skeptical at first. Being visited by a man claiming to not be Jim Moriarty but was actually Jim Moriarty but still wasn't. That he was actually _James Moriarty_ and he wanted to stop _Jim Moriarty._ Then somewhere buried inside was also a Richard Brook who was actually a bit useless and annoying.

To a regular mind it would have been too ridiculous or a carefully thought out trick that should be ignored.

If Sherlock was being honest, he would admit he had his doubts. Especially when _James_ requested to be handcuffed to Sherlock's bed and for Sherlock to trigger and draw out _Jim._

A switch in personalities can be faked of course but this was very much real. Sherlock _saw_ it. He tested the hypothesis and discovered the truth. Jim was not a born person. He was an unstable personality that took control of an otherwise good man.

To this day, this case remains Sherlock's favorite one he ever took. He worked together with James to defeat Jim Moriarty and they did. They now had him under lock and key. Jim was gone for the most part.

James and Sherlock monitored for signs of a return daily and now once a week or so. They were busy people these days, of course. Being married with children did take a toll on one's regard for their mental health.

It has been nearly four years without any sign of a return from Jim.

They had a beautiful four year old daughter. She was half Jim's DNA and half Molly who acted as their surrogate. Her name was Isobel Moriarty Holmes and she looked very much like James. Dark hair, brown eyes and all. She had a bit of a temper but so did James at times.

They also had a son, Scottie, who was turning two soon. He was mostly conceived the same, with Molly as the surrogate but this was 2015 and there were many advancements in the ability to reproduce. Which was amazing for couples of the same sex. In short, Scottie had a mixture of both Sherlock and James's DNA. He had a bit of Sherlock's curls and but did have James eyes. Brown eyes were very dominant in genetics obviously.

Scottie was a very happy little boy but was shy and a bit soft spoken.

The two children were very different from each other but complemented the other nicely and loved their parents.

The two consulting husbands were not perfect parents but they did their best to be there emotionally and physically for their children. They did have help from Sherlock's friends and family. Although James' excessive amount of wealth took care of all their needs, Sherlock still worked for Scotland yard for a check. The detective put every bit of it into a savings for Isobel and Scott.

Their children wanted for nothing and neither did they. The family was content. James was so incredibly happy...for a while. Suddenly everything started to spiral very fast.

"What did you do to his hair?!" Sherlock shouted at his husband in exasperation. He glared at the now short and slicked back strands on Scott's head. He agreed with James that the boy should get a haircut but he did not intend for them to hack it all off!

"Cut it and styled it nicely. He looked wild." James answered simply.

"He looked fine before! I spent months minding his hair and in ten minutes you take a bloody shear to it! I hate it now."

Scottie frowned, saddened that his daddy didn't like his new hair when papa loved it.

James groaned. "Now look, you've upset him." He picked up his son to offer comfort. "His hair is nice and will also grow back."

"He looks-"

"..handsome-" James started.

"-like a psychopath!"

James' face fell and tightened. "What the hell are you talking about? I wear my hair like this sometimes."

"Fine. Apparently all the brushing and putting product in it was for naught." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He will just look how you want and my opinion be damned." He grumbled, stalking away. "May as well buy him a _Westwood_ while you're at it-" he muttered.

"What did you just say?!" James had lunged forward and in anger he reacted. He had a fist full of the curly hair he was now holding his husband by.

The room dissolved to silence for a moment. Scottie's crying brought James back to the world. He blinked, looking down at his crying son in one arm. His eyes widened and his death grip on Sherlock's hair released.

"I'm...I'm sorry…" James stammered. "Sherlock.."

Sherlock turned around, looking at his husband with wide and fearful eyes.

James' eyes were just as full of fear. He bounced Scottie on his hip, patting the boy's back to ease his cries.

Sherlock finally asked the question. "Is he-"

James shook his head. "I don't know. I...I'm sorry...I.."

"James?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed in relief. They were not in immediate danger. Still, he took their son from him as a precaution and James looked at him like a sad puppy.

Their daughter Isobel ran excitedly into the sitting room, twirling her new dress. It was expensive and a shade of crimson. "I'm ready for the ball, papa! We are going to dance!" she exclaimed as she ran towards James.

Sherlock quickly redirected her path, catching her by the arm. "Papa is not feeling well and is staying home tonight. I will be filling in for him and dancing with you."

James said nothing because what could he possibly say? He lost control and he needed to gain it back while the family was out of the house. That was how it went. How it _always_ went.

Isobel, while disappointed her papa wasn't coming to the ball, was thrilled her daddy was going to dance with her. Her daddy was a great dancer. "Can we do ballet?" She asked.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock said, giving James a look. "Come along." He ushered Isobel to the stairs. Scott was held with one arm, his chin resting on the detective's shoulder.

"Bye, pa!" Scott sniffled, waving a chubby hand.

James gave a wave along with a smile that looked more like a grimace. Sherlock rushed them out so fast but he understood. It was precaution. Sherlock would go to the ball, make a good impression with the people there all on his own, and take the kids to an undisclosed hotel out of London. They would stay for a few days or a week at most. However long it took for them to be sure James was not dangerous.

This has happened before. It was like a drill in their home. Sometimes it happened without probable cause, which James hated very much.

He understood Sherlock trying to stay safe but sometimes it felt like James had to hide his emotions. Especially if he was upset. The moment he raised his voice, Sherlock would do just this. He would take the children and leave. Sometimes it was with good reason, like tonight. It was justified completely. He put his hands on his husband in anger. Which was unacceptable.

Half the time, however, it was unnecessary.

The children surely noticed a pattern. Papa would get angry and daddy would take them on a surprise trip. Scottie was still very young and didn't have much of a reaction to this besides some crying.

Isobel however, was older and smarter. At one point she even purposely tried to get James mad so Sherlock would take them off someplace new. She was a bit of a schemer in that way.

James sat himself down on the couch, running his hands down his face. He needed to calm down. He wanted to retreat into his mind kingdom but he knew he couldn't. That would be letting his guard down and leaving his mind open to a takeover. _If_ Jim was trying to get out again, that is. He still was not sure if the anger was even Jim.

While he would love to blame all his bad qualities and violent urges on Jim, he knew he couldn't. Some of them belonged to him. He would be lying if he said he didn't have a problem with anger himself or if he had never wanted to take it out on someone.

First he had to retrace his steps. He had just come back from his personal stylist with Scottie. They both got suited up for the ball tonight. Scottie got a haircut that James acknowledges now that Sherlock didn't agree to. He should not have gotten the boy's haircut without talking to Sherlock about it. That was a mistake and his own fault.

Sherlock did provoke him but he should have controlled himself better. He knew Sherlock spoke to people without thinking a lot. His husband was an idiot in that area but he loved him. Always. Sherlock was the love of his life.

James felt disgusted with himself, remembering how he grabbed his husband by the hair. He replayed the gasped cry Sherlock gave over and over. What the hell had he been trying to do?

Sherlock said that idiotic comment about those dreaded suits that used to clothe James' body. Sherlock struck a nerve there.

James suddenly felt very overheated. He made his way to the bathroom, turning on the sink. Against his better judgement, he took a look at himself in the mirror. Immediately he felt ill. He did resemble Jim quite a bit. He was wearing a nice suit, not Westwood but still extravagant in any case. His hair was gelled back, a bit longer than how Jim kept it however. Still, the impression was the same. When did he start mimicking Jim's style?

No wonder the people around him were weary, and Sherlock. Oh God. He couldn't imagine what Sherlock felt looking at him when he looked like this.

He needed to fix it. Now.

James loosened his tie and turned up his collar. He ran water over his hands, bringing them up to tussle his hair. The strands unraveled from the neat styling, standing up in odd directions on his head. He used more water, running his fingers through his hair over and over until it no longer resembled Jim's trademark look.

He could NOT come back. It would ruin everything. People would get hurt and Jim hated Sherlock. Jim would be so very angry that he was locked away. Jim would kill James' family because he would want revenge.

James stared expectantly into his reflection, expecting some sort of reaction. It did not come. He was losing his damn mind. He was in complete control was he not? He loved Sherlock, he loved his kids, and he loved his life now. But he got so angry sometimes. At the world, at people, at _Sherlock_. Normal was so boring. It felt so strange to be a family man but he wanted to make his loved ones happy. He was terrified everyday but he did his best. He didn't want Jim back or the life of a criminal mastermind.

He wanted to read to his children and watch them grow. He wanted to hold Sherlock in his arms and show him how much he loved him. Instead he scared his kids and terrorized his husband. James barely recognized himself anymore.

James grit his teeth, glaring at himself in the mirror.

Pathetic.

Disgusting.

 _Monster._

" **Did you miss me?"** The words came out of his own mouth, soft and lilting.

James' eyes shot open and he saw red. His fist came down into the mirror again and again and again…

He didn't feel pain, only the rage and hatred that fueled him. It kept him standing and pounding against the mirror. He lost track of how many times. His hand felt so warm now but his body felt cold.

James' breath came out in bursts as he staggered on his feet. He didn't remember much of what happened after that. He remembered walking towards the kitchen in search of a knife. He was going to stop Jim Moriarty once and for all. At least that had been his plan. He didn't seem to make it to the kitchen.

The next thing he remembered was John Watson standing over him looking mildly concerned.

"Jim? Jim, can you hear me?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note: back at it again with the consulting gays….and a wild John too.**

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 _Consulting Husbands: A Switch in the System_

"Jim? Jim, can you hear me?" John cautiously shook the madman by the shoulder. Ex-madman, sorry. The doctor still didn't know what to make of this arrangement. His best friend married a psychopath that tried to kill both of them many times. He disliked Moriarty but he still danced at the wedding and played the part of best man.

John trusted Sherlock and he loved Sherlock's children as if they were his own. They were good kids (mostly) and Sherlock was a great man but Moriarty was...yeah. He wasn't opening that can of worms again.

Mary was long gone. She died protecting Moriarty of all people. Which he still didn't understand at all. She kept saying they needed him, they needed him. Then she took her last breath in his arms. He didn't know what she meant because _he_ needed _her_ and so did Rosie. He certainly did not need Jim Moriarty and at the time he knew Sherlock did not need the man either. He wasn't so sure his opinion on this changed even now.

John didn't completely hate Moriarty but he didn't like him either. He definitely didn't love him. Far from it, actually. He tolerated him at best and tried to ignore him. Which was difficult being as the man was married to his best friend but it wasn't a hardship

. He has barely spoken to the man in the five years him and Sherlock have been together.

When John visited he didn't acknowledge the (former) criminal. He spoke to Sherlock and greeted the kids, giving them presents they did not need at all. He still went on cases with Sherlock as much as he could. Rosie was six years old now and in school and John had a job at a clinic. Life was...going on it seemed.

Ignoring Moriarty was simple enough. However at this moment it was proving to be quite difficult with the man unconscious on the floor and bleeding.

John did not know if he came to visit at a good or bad time. A good time to help the evil man and give him medical attention maybe, but a bad time because Sherlock was not here and now John had to deal with this situation.

John sighed and was kneeling down not too close. He kept a bit of distance. He did not trust the man after all. He continued to cautiously shake Moriarty by the shoulder, receiving no response. "Bloody hell…" The doctor got closer to check for a pulse, not really favoring either outcome.

Well, Moriarty was alive and John was shocked to find himself the slightest bit relieved.

"Jim." John shook him again. "Jim! Moriarty...hey! Get up!"

Not only did he not want to be anywhere near the ex-criminal but he was also unsure what to do about him being unresponsive in the middle of the floor.

Calling an ambulance was not a good idea, right along with the idea of calling the police. With Moriarty's prior criminal history it would do more harm than good.

Luckily for himself, John was a doctor. Unluckily for Moriarty, John was a doctor who Moriarty tried to kill all those years ago.

With a smirk, John stood and headed towards the kitchen. He whistled the whole way there and back with a skip in his step.

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James felt as if his whole body was engulfed in flame. Was this what the fabled hell was like? He couldn't see anything at all. He only felt pain across his body and shooting up his arm.

He deserved so much more, he thought. Why did the devil show him mercy? He was not a good person. He's caused so much pain and anguish. He wished he could take it all back.

The only good he's ever done in the world was fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. A man who loved him for some reason and gave him beautiful children. His family was the only light in his otherwise dark and horrible life of misery. He hoped they could forgive him for taking his own life. He hoped they would understand that there was no other way and that he did it to protect them. Jim had to be stopped.

James couldn't feel Jim anymore. He couldn't feel anything but the burning of his body in death. At least he thought he was dead. How wrong he was.

James shouted out in alarm, sitting up and sputtering. His eyes were wide as they darted around him. He was home. He was alive. He was awake. He was soaking wet and John Watson stood over him laughing.

"Very funny, Watson." James glared from the floor, using his good hand to wipe the water from his eyes.

John sat the now empty water jug on the counter. "It is very funny, I think."

"I don't think they taught you that in medical school."

"They might've."

"Right. Well." James pulled himself closer to the wall by the kitchen. He leaned his back against it. "What are you doing here?"

"I came over to see if Sherlock could mind Rosie Monday afternoon. I have a late shift that day and thank God I didn't bring her with me today. Instead I came to find Sherlock nowhere to be found and you out cold with your hand a bloody mess." John surmised. "I'm afraid to ask what is going on. I'm not really sure I want to know…" he pried his eyes away from the tattered hand, trying not to care as much as he did. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He went to that ball for Mycroft." James told him, examining the damage done to his hand.

John hummed. "Ah, right. Keeping up the good appearances for the public to save you from prosecution then?"

" _Yes_." James snarled. "You've been paying attention. Lovely, good. Get out."

"What happened to your hand?"

"It's fine."

"I know, I examined it. That's not what I asked." said John, taking some papers from a roll. He held them down to Moriarty on the floor.

James eyed him suspiciously but took what was offered and wrapped his hand with it. It quickly became soaked with blood. "I hit the mirror." he explained.

"And does it feel better than hitting your husband?"

James winced but knew better than to deny it. He did deserve it. His marriage with Sherlock did have a rocky start. He made mistakes and everyone knew about them. He had to live with them forever. He was to blame for Sherlock's random bruises and black eyes and the occasional trip to the A&E for fractures.

He was a changed man since then. He may slip every once in a while but he no longer actively abused his husband.

"I would never again-"

"But you did." John cut him off. "And everyone knows. So excuse me if I find it very hard to trust you. You haven't given me much reason to otherwise."

James sighed in exasperation. "What do you want from me, Watson? I love Sherlock. I love my kids. I'm doing what I can for them. What can I possibly do to make you trust me?"

"I don't know what I want from you and nothing. Nothing you can possibly do will ever make me trust you." said the doctor and James' heart sunk. "But loving them is good. Loving them is a start for you I suppose."

James didn't say anything. He just sat there on the floor, feeling like the scum of the earth.

"Now, get up. I've got to get the glass out of your hand." John took the first aid kit out of the cabinet. "You can't wave at crowds and kiss babies with an infection."

James gave a chuckle despite himself, pulling his body up from the floor. He sat up on the stool. "Thank you, Doctor Watson."

"You're welcome, I suppose, Moriarty."

"Call me James."

"Yeah, not going to happen. Ever." The doctor set to work on picking out the shards of glass.

James sighed. Mrs. Hudson was right. He supposed he had to pick his battles. Now he just hoped he could get someone in to fix the mirror before it was seen or she would double their rent. Again.

Not that he cared. He was rich after all.

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A month has passed since the mirror incident. Things were going well. The children were happy it seemed and Sherlock and James haven't had too many more fights than usual.

Even though John said he would never trust him, the doctor appeared to be warming up to him. Or tolerating him a little more at the least.

James just donated another million to some hospital for charity and was set to donate to other places throughout the year. He had to keep looking good to the public. He had to give back to makeup for everything he took. Honestly he didn't think he could ever give enough to completely clear him of his crimes but at least it was keeping him out of prison. People were also benefiting from his donations, he supposed.

He was no longer a consulting criminal. He was now a consulting businessman, lending his insight and expertise on projects and finances. He showed people how to be successful and make money, which in turn made him money as well. He was still rich. Less than before as a criminal of course, but very well off.

They could live in a mansion if they wanted and even have a summer home but Sherlock was reluctant to leave Baker Street. Well he refused was more like it. Nothing would change the detective's mind.

So Sherlock and James had Sherlock's bedroom and the kids shared John's old bedroom. They had less room than James would have liked but Sherlock insisted it was fine. No matter how much the lack of space bothered everyone else.

" _Get out my room, Scott!"_

" _No!"_

" _Get out!"_

" _No!"_

" _You are stupid!"_

" _No! Stupid!"_

James let out a sigh, rubbing his temples as he sat up on the couch. "Sherlock…"

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed. He focused more on his slides under his microscope than he did his own children that were having a row upstairs.

"We need a bigger house."

"Why?"

"Why?" James repeated. "Do you not hear what's going on upstairs?"

"They're bonding." said the detective.

" _Ouch, let go of my hair, doofus!"_

" _No!"_

" _DADDY!"_

" _PA!"_

James groaned and stood up. He went to the stairs. "They need separate bedrooms, Sherlock. You said you would think it over when the time comes."

"I have thought it over at great length."

"And?" James urged, anxious to get upstairs before Isobel killed Scottie.

"No." Sherlock answered simply.

"No?! What-" Before James could start the argument, there was a scream and a crash from upstairs. "Hold that thought." He ran up the stairs to do damage control.

Sherlock listened to the ruckus, swapping out slides he already looked at for new ones. "Interesting…" he mumbled.

" _Alright, stop it now!" James shouted in the distance. "Both of you are going to be in big trouble if you don't- Oi!"_

Sherlock chuckled to himself, hearing more crashes and noise. Typical and tedious. He shook his head and went back to his blood samples. "Very interesting."

There was much more shouting from Isobel, Scott, but mostly from James trying to take control of the situation. After a good fifteen minutes, James marched back down the stairs. He held both kids around the waist, one in each arm. They struggled and tried to swing at each other but mainly hit James instead.

"Sherlock-" James gave a grunt at being punched in the nose by a tiny stray fist. "I could use some help."

"Busy."

"Sherlock!" James cried and brought his attention back to the children. "Stop it, stop fighting! Isobel, don't punch your brother or me! Scottie, we do not bite people! _Sherlock,_ get off the damn microscope and stop your children from kicking the crap out of each other and me!"

"Dull." Sherlock huffed, ignoring them otherwise. He adjusted the magnification.

"Sherlock! For christ's sake- Stop it, now! Oi! ...Oi!" James was furious and he felt his face burning. " _Knock it off!_ " he shouted in anger and tossed the children onto the couch.

Isobel and Scottie fell silent, staring at their papa in shock from where they landed on the cushions.

Sherlock stood immediately, heart suddenly pounding. He scanned James and the children with his eyes.

"When I say to stop doing something, you'll stop doing it! Is that understood?" James demanded the little boy and girl.

Isobel didn't say anything and Scottie's eyes were already filled with tears.

"I said is that understood?" James repeated.

"James-" Sherlock started but gave a pause. It was better to go with the situation in order to defuse it, he decided. "You are to listen to your papa when he says to not do something. He knows what's best for you, yes?"

"Yes, daddy." Isobel replied.

Scottie sniffed up some snot. "Uh huh."

"Good." Sherlock nodded. "Get ready for bed. We will both tuck you in."

Isobel slid down from the couch, helping her brother down. The two climbed up the stairs in silence save for the sound of Scott's sniffling nose.

"You need to control your temper." the detective told his husband once the children were out of earshot.

"You need to fucking step up and help me when I need it." James exclaimed in response. "I can't do this by myself, Sherlock! You can't sit there and shut yourself off when it's too much. That's not how it works."

"I know. I am sorry." Sherlock apologized. He was sincere, recognizing his mistake. They were a team and he could not let James fend for himself. He had to step in and be a parent. Children didn't just go away if you ignored them. They were a constant.

James sighed. "Good. Thank you." He leaned in for a long kiss, shutting his eyes. His hand came up to cup the taller man's jaw. "Now let's get them to bed. And then _I_ can get you to bed."


	3. Chapter 3

**Authors note: SMUT!/DUBCON! Here you go you devils.**

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 _Consulting Husbands: A Switch in the System_.

James continued cleaning up the sitting room and kitchen. He moved toys and blankets with one hand while holding his cellphone to his ear with the other.

He was exhausted yet restless. The past few days have not been easy. He had to juggle between working for some difficult clients and helping Sherlock take care of the kids. He got very little sleep, being awake with clients all morning and into the afternoon. Then he was awake with the children all night.

Isobel and Scottie have been sick for about three days and counting. It was an endless cycle of crying, fevers that terrified Sherlock, and being coughed and sneezed upon. It was really gross and stressful and annoying.

By the end of it all, James never wanted to see another runny little nose or thermometer ever again. He knew however, that with being a parent he was in for many more days like these. While it was horrible to see his children so ill, there was something about how they lay on your chest and slept so peacefully. Their little hands latched around you, tiny snores escaping tiny diaphragms.

James thought he could never feel happiness but he felt it with his children. He felt love and adoration and pride. He was so proud to be a father to such wonderful kids. He wanted nothing more than to be by their side. Which was difficult to be when he was on the phone talking to an idiot.

He sighed, picking up used tissues but he didn't feel disgust anymore. He was quite desensitized by now. What he wasn't desensitized to, was morons that wouldn't take his advice as gospel.

James hated his work more than anything. He missed the days when people would beg practically on their knees for his consulting. They would sell their souls for so much as a few syllables of his intellect. He would be listened to without question. He wouldn't take orders. He gave them.

Now he dealt with imbeciles who found the need to question him at every turn and give their opinions on what they thought were better ideas than his. As if he wasn't a genius and former napoleon of crime.

It really pissed him off.

"I know what I'm talking about." James said through his teeth. "I've done this before." And he has, just not legally. It could be done legally but there were more hoops involved. Which he was telling the man how to get through. If he would just shut the fuck up and do what James said.

"You have?" The man spat, guffawing. And James imagined this fat sack of gravy choking to death on a biscuit that had been shoved down his throat. "You're just an accountant. What would you know about REAL money?"

The cellphone in his hand creaked under the pressure of his fingertips. James breathed out through his nose, counting to ten and then twenty and then thirty.

"Hello? Are you there? Do not waste my time!"

"I'm here." James said calmly, trying to remember why he deleted the contact information of all his hitmen. He did have more than half of them memorized, obviously. He was so very tempted but…

"Papa!"

"Pa!"

His children were calling him up to say goodnight. They needed him and his husband to tuck them in. Suddenly he remembered why he did everything.

"I must be going." James said into the phone, eyes on the stairs. "If you aren't confident in my services, I suggest you find another consultant. Goodnight. Also, please choke and die on whatever food you're scarfing down."

He hung up without hearing the man's heavy breathing reply and headed up the stairs. He took them two at a time, a grin on his lips as he readied them to give kisses to the three lights of his life.

.

.

.

.

Sherlock sighed in relief as he threw himself on his side of the bed. How he loves the silence that only happens when children are asleep. It was one of the greatest occasions in the universe, he decided.

In his life he's been sleep deprived from cases for days on end. He was subjected to sleep deprivation as a form of torture. They did not compare to the lack of sleep from being awake for days with two sick and rambunctious toddlers.

The detective's mind was still buzzing and alert with worry for the children but his body was begging him to shut down for the night. For once he wanted to give in to the temptation and he started to. His cheek lay on the pillow and his eyes slipped shut. He started to drift off…

James entered their bedroom with a bright smile and dilated pupils. He eased their door shut, turning the lock securely. He climbed into bed.

He crawled behind his husband, placing his hands on either side of his waist. He buried his nose in the back of Sherlock's neck. Breathing a sigh, he started to press his lips against the exposed skin. His hands ran up and down the detective's sides affectionately.

"Sherlock.." James said softly, lips coming up behind his ear. He let his body fall lower, pressing his front up against Sherlock's back.

Sherlock did give a groan but otherwise stayed sprawled beneath the shorter man.

"The kids are asleep for the night."

"I am aware." sighed the detective, muffling into a very expensive pillowcase. "That is why my eyes are now closed."

"I love you, you know that?" James mumbled. His mouth attacked the pale and freckled skin from shoulder to shoulder. When he ran out of untouched skin he started to travel. He pulled the gown to Sherlock's shoulder blades. He sucked and bit marks into the back of his neck. "I want you, Sherlock."

"I want to sleep, James."

"Come on. When was the last time I made love to you?"

Sherlock stifled a grunt of approval as a hand ventured under his robe to flip it over his bottom. Soft yet rough hands grabbed his hips firmly. "Six days, twelve hours, twenty-five minutes- ah." His husband was now applying pressure to his right gluteus medius with his teeth.

James chuckled. "That was a quick shag in the bathroom, love. Doesn't count. I'm talking a bit slower than that…" He pulled the robe off Sherlock completely, exposing his back and clothed bum. (Which, he noted, looked good for smacking.)

"I'm not in the mood to-" The detective let out an exclamation of surprise when a hand came down on one of his cheeks. He turned his head in order to scold the man when the bed shifted.

Sherlock was shocked to find that James already kicked off his shorts and was mounting him from behind. He stiffened, James arms around his waist and pulling him back against his erection.

"I want to get you off." James said in a murmur. "You look so beautiful when I get you off, Sherlock." His hand turned the taller man's chin so he could latch onto Sherlock's pulse. "I want to make love to-"

"Tedious. Just stop now!" Sherlock spat out.

James flinched as if he'd been burned. He stopped and made a retreat, sitting back on his heels in silence.

"I am tired and not in the mood to be intimate. Especially if you are going to be blubbering like you are." Sherlock couldn't even hear the man breathing behind him yet he knew James was there and hearing him very clearly. "Love has little to do with sex. It is nothing but a selfish desire for one's own pleasure and gratification. Which I am willing to offer my body to satisfy you as my duty as your husband but I will not be actively participating nor looking in your direction." the detective spoke quickly and decisive. He was cranky, irritable, uncaring of the effects of his words it seemed. "Love is a chemical defect and a horrible disease that takes over the mind. It changes people. It has affected me but I did not think it would domesticate you this much. It is very disappointing. I am exhausted, very annoyed, and I am going to sleep. Do what you will. You know where the lubricant is."

A full moment of silence passed after his outburst. Seconds later, Sherlock opened his eyes and rose a brow. He was about to demand James hurry up while the offer was still on the table but it appeared the decision was made. Weight shifted, their nightstand opened and shut.

"Interesting." Sherlock said.

He didn't expect James to accept the consensual yet one sided intercourse. Perhaps the man hadn't lost all of his edge after all. The detective lied a bit. He would not sleep while his husband fucked him. He was going to lay there and enjoy being dominated and used. It was a nice change from all that 'making love' nonsense. He wanted a bit of danger and power play. It was, after all, what brought the two of them together in the first place.

Sherlock relaxed his body in preparation. He tried not to appear too interested. "Go on, then. Don't worry about being too gentle. I'll just erase it if it isn't-" He hissed when nails dug harshly into the flesh of his hips and he was flipped quite suddenly onto his back.

James glowered down at him with very dark and dilated pupils. "If I am fucking you, you will look at me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "James, what the hell-"

"Wrong, honey. Very wrong." James shook his head with a devious smirk.

The detective looked confused for a moment, not understanding what the devil was happening.

"Did you miss me, Sherlock? Daddy sure missed you..."

Sherlock reacted immediately to those words but his next move was anticipated. His hands were grabbed and pinned on either side of his head before he could even begin to throw the man off of him.

It didn't matter how turned on he was or how the adrenaline pumping through his veins felt so very wonderful. He would not risk his children's lives in order to fulfill his fantasies. Besides, he would not cheat on James and Jim has made it very clear before that he was not interested in Sherlock at all. Jim despised him and would do anything to see him suffer. He knew a lot about pressure points and Sherlock had two of them asleep upstairs.

The detective would do what he had to. He would plead, grovel, even make a deal with Jim. He was prepared to do anything the man wanted in order to protect his and James' children from harm. London and everything else be damned. He was going to say as much when Moriarty broke the silence.

"What's the safe word?" The man said softly.

Sherlock blinked up at him, searching his eyes. He did not understand. "Pardon?" He never doubted his senses but he knew he could not have heard the words correctly.

"What is the safe word, Sherlock?" The Irishman repeated, clearer. His eyes were still dilated, still dark but there was life in them.

"James?" Sherlock demanded in disbelief.

"Yes." James confirmed and the detective nearly choked up with relief. "I'm here."

Jim has not returned, not for real. Which was good obviously but this changed everything entirely. They have never role played before. Certainly not like this.

"Cold case". Sherlock breathed out. He could not believe this turn of events and he did not know what to make of it. He was intrigued however, very intrigued. "The safe word is cold case."

James gave a firm nod of approval. "Good boy." His hand came up to hold Sherlock's chin in a tight grip. He chastised him. "But you've been very disrespectful to daddy. You don't seem to know your place. Don't fret though, I'll put you right back into it."

Sherlock's lips parted as a hand wrapped around his throat. He swallowed and stammered while his heart rate elevated. "James-"

James' hand tightened considerably in disapproval. "No. It's Jim or daddy. You get that through your big stupid brain, right now. Do you have it?"

Sherlock thought his heart would explode in his chest. This was insane but so thrilling. His adrenaline was steadily rising and it's been so very long since it has done so.

"Answer me, Sherlock." James urged, digging his nails into the long throat before him.

"Yes, yes." he gasped. His head swam, the depleting oxygen in his lungs taking its toll. It only added fuel to the flames starting to lick at the edges of his mind.

"Yessss?"

Sherlock clarified, at once. "Yes, Jim." Jim not James. Although it was James pretending to be Jim and James was playing the part so well. Or was he playing at all?

"Mmm...very good." James leaned in close to Sherlock's face, running his tongue up the trembling lips and the tip of the nose. He spoke very low, calculating the effect of each word he said and how they caused Sherlock to shiver. "I like that very much. So obedient now when faced with danger. Are you in danger, Sherlock? Do you want to escape? Or is this exactly where you want to be?"

Sherlock gave a groan. Weight adjusted above him and pressure was applied to his pelvic bone at just the right amount and location. "Oh God-"

"Oh, no. I am your God, honey. Don't give someone else credit for my work." James told him, staring down on him. "You know I own you. You worship me. I own every part of you and I'm going to show you exactly who you belong to. How's that sound, pet?"

"It sounds-" Even more pressure was applied to Sherlock's windpipe. He lay there puffing through his nose as much as he could for breath.

"Shhh." The ex criminal hushed him. He lowered his head to kiss those gasping lips. It was a bit of a filthy kiss, full of suction, tongue, and saliva. By the end of it Sherlock's lips were shining and all thought ceased in his mind. Lack of oxygen and arousal did work very well together.

James counted thirty seconds and released the detective's throat, watching him heave and gasp for air. He wished to choke the man with something a bit more phallic in shape. He would love to have those beautiful bow lips wrapped around him while he thrust his way past them. James decided against it. Another time, perhaps. Right now, they would get directly down to business.

He quickly stripped the taller man of his pants. James was less than gentle with the task. The cloth was yanked from the long legs and discarded somewhere out of sight.

The Irishman's eyes lit up deviously. It was so very perfect. The expanse of creamy skin and freckles, the already hardened nipples on the chest. (Which he just had to bite a bit and roll over with his tongue). The moan he got in response was downright adorable. A bit pathetic too.

Sherlock's own cock sat hard, tinted, and pretty between his legs. James almost felt bad for having to ignore it. It was gorgeous, already weeping.

James placed Sherlock's wrists high above his head. "You'll keep them there and you won't move them, will you Sherlock?"

"No, Jim." He answered.

"Of course you won't. You know better than to disobey me. You belong to me and you are nothing without me. Is that right?" James waited for a few long seconds for an answer. He brought a heavy hand down on the man's inner thigh, very close to his penis. He didn't have to ask the question again. He received an answer immediately.

"Yes.." Sherlock hissed at the stinging sensation. "That's right..I'm..." He paused, thinking over the words he spoke.

"Stop thinking." James muttered. "I'm starting to smell burning." He busied himself with slathering his fingers and cock with lubricant. A lot of lubricant. There would definitely be no 'love making' here. "Say it now so we can move on. I'm getting bored with you."

"I'm- ah." Sherlock shivered as James poured the slippery substance directly onto his hole, then began rubbing it in. "I'm- shit." He cursed. A finger entered him and soon another. They hooked inside of him, starting to fuck his entrance open.

"Mm..Close, but not quite. Try again." James pushed his fingers deeper, moving them faster after adding another. His palm now slapped against cheeks with a delectable noise.

Sherlock gaped and moaned uncontrollably. He stammered out pleads, not even sure what words were escaping his mouth. It was so good. The way those three fingers moved inside of him, pressing against his prostate again and again. He bit his lip and said nothing.

Unsatisfied with this outcome, James retracted his fingers. It was time for a new tactic. He tossed the long legs open and got in between them, starting to slide his slick cock up and down the split of arse. He stopped every so often to apply pressure with his tip to the entrance.

The teasing drove Sherlock absolutely mad. He writhed and moved his arse against the rutting erection. He never needed to be filled as much as he did right now and he almost gave a sob when James grabbed hold of his penis. The man gave it a few merciless tugs.

"Who owns you, Sherlock Holmes? Tell me." James slowed his hand, giving long strokes. He paused every so often to squeeze and spread pre cum over the head.

Sherlock babbled his answer. "You, Jim. You. Always, always..." His skin burned, flushed and sweating. His senses were on fire.

"Wonderful." James folded the long legs up and out of his way. "Now I am going to absolutely fuck you into this mattress, my dear." He said with a lilt and finally thrust his cock inside.

The sound Sherlock made was obscene. He cursed, muttered and begged. Inch by inch, his husband's (enemy's?) cock split him open. His fists were opening and clenching where they rest above his head.

When James bottomed out, balls resting heavy against his arse, he couldn't control himself any longer. He reached up to grab at the man.

James caught his flailing wrists and slammed them back down. He held them very tight, pinning them as he finally began. He pulled himself almost all the way out before pushing back in.

"Jame- Jim! Oh, oh-" Sherlock let out a very pretty cry when James angled his thrusts and hit that lovely bundle of nerves inside of him.

"You looove this, don't you? I can see it in the way your face twists in pleasure. You're getting off because I'm dangerous. You get high on me- fuck- because I'm the best drug you've ever been on. "You're nothing-" he emphasized his words between long drawn out thrusts and sharp ones that were so precise they had Sherlock's eyes rolling. "- without me, Sherlock. Oh fuck...you feel good. Hmmm. I should come out more often. Show you how a real man fucks a bitch like you."

Sherlock's senses were so overstimulated. This was what he needed. The danger, the abuse, the degradation. He missed it so much. "Jim, please. I need-"

"What do you need, sweetie? Tell daddy.." James panted, fighting to hold Sherlock's wrists down. The man tried to flail out of frustration but James had complete control.

James' had an iron grip on his wrists to hold him in place on the bed. The detective loved it, the way the man pinned him down with all his weight and strength. It gave the illusion of complete entrapment, greatly fueling Sherlock's fantasy.

"I need you." It felt so good to admit. His body felt so warm and James' cock felt good as well. It always felt so good. Yet this time it felt better, so much better. "Fuck me, into the mattress, please." Sherlock begged.

James let out an animalistic growl as he obliged, capturing the parted lips in his own. He fucked Sherlock's mouth with his tongue while he brutally fucked him with his penis.

Sherlock was moaning and trembling beneath Moriarty. He was babbling and begging. He was beginning to see spots in his vision. It was too much and not enough at the same time. It was beautiful torture. He pleaded and came undone. His curls were plastered to his face and around his head. James never let go of his wrists, keeping him restrained and surely making bruises but he could dnot give less of a damn. He was so close.

James broke their messy kiss, lowering his head to bite and break skin, to create purple marks into Sherlock's neck and chest. He drew blood and lapped it up. The contrast of the colors between clear skin and bruises was like art.

"Yes, God, Jim, oh god please."

"You're so good, Sherlock...such a good boy for me…That's it, honey. You're mine, all mine. Come for daddy."

Sherlock's vision went white when he came.

.

.

.

.

.

Sherlock trembled beneath his husband, still feeling the aftershocks of his release. They didn't move from where they collapsed. He was feeling immensely sore all over but much more than satisfied. He sighed out into James' shoulder where he lay his chin over.

James had his arms wrapped around the detective, laying on top of him. Their bodies were intertwined and cooling off quickly. Neither of them made a move to pull up the blanket.

"I love you, James." Sherlock breathed out in content. "That was amazi-"

James lifted his head to look directly into Sherlock's eyes. "You love him."

Sherlock opened his mouth to begin his denial, to say that wasn't true. He could never love Jim. Jim was a monster.

James gave him a long kiss on the lips and he was silenced.

"You love him." James repeated when he pulled away. "I can see it in your eyes when you look in mine. You're always searching for him. You see him in there deep inside and you can't see me. I get angry when I think you can't see me, Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

_Consulting Husbands: A Switch in the System._

Sherlock ran on autopilot as he went through the day. He had a lot on his mind. He was questioning everything he's ever done over the past five years. Entering a _relationship_ , getting _married_ , having _children_ with... _Moriarty_.

 _James_ made a shocking accusation, observation or whatever the hell it was. He accused Sherlock of loving _Jim_ Moriarty and not _James_ Moriarty. It was ridiculous, insulting and just a downright idiotic deduction.

 _But what if it were true? And would it matter in any case?_

They've been married for four years, they have two young offspring they are responsible for and they have already integrated their lives completely. Legally, and mentally even.

Would James really leave him now after all they built together?

That would be a very ignorant move on James' part. They needed each other to survive.

Sherlock could not see James throwing that all away simply because he was wrongfully jealous of another version of himself with a different personality. Or, at least, the detective hoped to never see James do such a thing. It would ruin them both.

"Ta." Scottie said once his dad cut his sandwich into pieces. He frowned as Sherlock kept cutting it into even smaller and smaller pieces. "Ta!" the toddler said again, louder. His sandwich was starting to look more and more like a pile of crumpled bits. "Ta, dah! Ta!" He whined and beat his fists against the table.

Sherlock blinked, looking down at the mess he made of Scott's lunch. It was still edible, but after four years he knew better than to even attempt it. "Sorry. I'll fix another." He mumbled and threw the 'sandwich' and its plate into the trash.

His husband was very well off and he could care less about washing a dish. He threw them away all the time. Every week, there was always a new set that would appear. The detective never acknowledged it and certainly wouldn't start to do so now. It was trivial and not worth his thoughts. Sherlock didn't have to think about stupid, normal things with James around. In fact, he didn't have to think about much at all besides their intimacy and their offspring. As well as some cases from Lestrade. They were never high profile cases, not really anyway.

It appeared that all of the very good criminals have faced extinction. Although, if you were to ask Mycroft, he would say that Sherlock has 'slain' them all or that murder has 'run out of fashion'. _Idiot._

Who could get tired of something so _exciting, stimulating, fun?_

Oh, that was a bit not good wasn't it? Pardon him.

What he meant to say was; A _drenaline inducing, intelligence increasing, interesting._ Though, those words did not feel right in the slightest. They did not accurately describe his interest, not to him. Those words were boring. Murder was _riveting._ James was riveting, also. However, neither held a connection to the other, of course.

The tall man turned, gathering ingredients to construct another sandwich to the children's liking.

"Cut mine!" Isobel demanded, calling him back. "Now, daddy!"

The detective came when needed, like a parent did (to his knowledge). He did not mind how the request was communicated to him. He only followed through with what was asked of him. John always told him how 'ill-mannered' Isobel was, that she shouldn't be able to talk to him however she wanted.

Sherlock saw no distinction between the ways his child asked him for something she wanted. The outcome was the same. He would do his best to get what the girl wanted and if for some reason he couldn't or if he did not want to be bothered, then he made sure James got it.

New clothing, no matter how ridiculous or expensive, toys ranging from dolls to ones that mimicked weapons. He's become so domesticated, so normal. He thought it felt hateful, but perhaps he was feeling hate towards something that he couldn't quite place.

"Cut it into a skull shape!" Isobel said, half excitedly and half demanding.

Sherlock rolled up the sleeves of his robe without much thought and set to work on cutting his daughter's food into the odd shape with perfect symmetry.

"What happen to your arms?" Isobel stared at the dark hand prints on her dad's wrists. "You have ouches."

"I'm fine." Sherlock sighed.

"Lots of ouches, daddy." She pointed to the matching marks on his neck. "They look cool!" Isobel stood up in her chair, beaming with curiosity. She was like Sherlock in that way. She was always fascinated by the new and the strange. "How?"

 _How_ was Isobel's favorite word. She loved to ask how things came to be, how things happened, how everything.

The detective loved to explain it all to her, to show her the wonders and logic of the known universe. This time around, however, he wasn't sure it was best to do so. "Sit down and eat. You are very young and cannot possibly grasp the concept of physical gratification between two consenting parties-"

In that moment, James came up the last few stairs and entered the kitchen. "Afternoon."

"Pa!" Scottie reached his chubby hands out to his other father.

The boy's curls were tousled and a raspberry was blown unpleasantly into his cheek.

"No, pa!" Scott grimaced and pushed James away.

James chuckled. One of the best parts about being a parent was annoying your children. Embarrassing them was also up there on the list but the they were too young for that. One day, he supposed. It was going to be very fun. Along with threatening other parents at school functions.

The Irishman planned to go around and greet the three loves/leeches of his life that lived off of him. He kissed the children's head, being ignored by Isobel and swatted away by Scott.

James saved the best for last, it seemed. He was in the process of moving on to his husband when his eyes caught up with him.

"Sherlock." James said simply. "We talked about this. We don't want idiots to talk. They'd get it wrong." He automatically set to work on adjusting the detective's robe.

"Daddy's showing us his ouches and telling us how!" Isobel declared.

Their daughter did have a problem of stating things as fact when they did not even occur. The detective repeatedly reminded her that just because she wished something was so, it did not make it reality nor persuade it to be. Isobel was a very intelligent child at the age of four and a quarter, although she was stubborn, ill mannered, and had a bit of a temper, Sherlock and James classified this as normal behavior. They, too, were prone to antisocial behavior, outbursts, and frustration as children. Gifted people were often judged, seen as strange or _'socially unacceptable'._ It was nonsense, and the couple refused to let Isobel go through the same torment as they had.

Still, Sherlock was annoyed by her false admission to James. The last thing he wanted was to be blamed for something he hadn't done.

"She is not telling the truth." Sherlock glared at the four year old.

"Am so, daddy!" Isobel glared back.

"Please, just shut up." The detective snapped at her.

James set his jaw at that, scolding. "Oi! Don't tell her to shut up. She's four."

The little girl agreed. "Yeah, daddy."

"Bellie, shut up." James said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as hard as he possibly could. The double standards were not making him very thrilled either.

Scottie was pouting, looking very grumpy. The little lad still hasn't had his lunch and his papa did that gross thing to his cheek. He was used to the shouting, and only got upset when it got to higher volumes. Which, lately, was more frequent than not.

James looked at his spouse in slight anger. "What happens behind closed doors with us, stays between us. Or do you not remember that part of the arrangement?"

"I remember the conditions of our contract." Sherlock said, point blank. "No renewals, no way out, until death. I said as much in my vows. It would seem as if you are the one not remembering your side of things."

The ex-criminal's eyes flashed with emotion, briefly. His head started to tilt. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Barely anything, obviously." was the response.

"What haven't I done? Tell me, right now, what I'm not doing, Sherlock, I do everything!" James exclaimed, quickly. "I give you _everything_ but you're still miserable. Nothing satisfies you. Only the palm of Jim's hand it seems."

" _Don't._ " Sherlock warned him, though it sounded more like a plead. "Just, _stop_."

James did, and took a breath. He ran a hand down his face and abandoned his argument. He looked over his son and found another battle, one he could actually win. "Why did you only feed one of them? Scottie's wasting away."

"I wasn't showing them anything." Sherlock sighed, reassuring his husband again. This time he was believed, or rather, James accepted his answer to spare him. "I was about to feed the child. I wouldn't let him go without nourishment. Obviously."

"But you'd let people see these marks and then I wouldn't be able to _remind you_ to give him nourishment at all." James huffed, calmly, yet it caused a spark to go off inside of the detective.

It was enough to ignite the start of a row. Their rows always became a war. A short one that Sherlock always lost in the end. It was pointless to escalate the situation, but it's been so very long since Sherlock last entered a battle. He didn't care about a victory. He wanted the heat of the battle. Lately, he's felt so very frozen in time.

Furthermore, he did nothing wrong. Why should he have to hide his body in his own home and from anyone else? There was nothing wrong about what they did. Who cared if idiots talked?

The marriage alone had everyone talking for four and a half years. There was nothing more to talk about, in Sherlock's opinion. There was even less that Sherlock wanted to hear about. One of those things was criticism for supposed 'actions' his husband took against him.

They were married and no longer enemies. They did not spend their days finding ways to best each other. The two men worked together to build a life. At least, that is what Sherlock tells himself. In reality, perhaps the only things that have changed was their living situation, the children, and the legal title of their relationship.

"I am serving lunch." Sherlock said with hostility. "Sandwich?" He was still very much angered at James for his accusation the night before. In a petty form of retaliation, he picked Scott's barely recognizable sandwich and plate from out of the trash. He forced it into Moriarty's hands, starting to exit stage left. " _Do_ , enjoy it, _daddy._ "

James' hand slammed the plate of trash down onto the table with enough force to break it into three, unequal pieces. He snatched Sherlock's shoulder, yanking him back. " _ **You don't talk to-**_ " he suddenly stopped, feeling oddly as if he were in two places at once. Inside of a padded room feeling disgusting, and right here in the present moment where he was confused but very angry.

The flat fell into silence and the two consultants fell into a glaring competition. They stood in the middle of the kitchen, their son and daughter watching them. Scott was frightened and Isobel looked on with growing interest.

"Let go of me." Sherlock warned slowly. "Now."

James blinked twice. His head cleared very shortly after. His grip released, arm falling to his side. Shutting his eyes, he counted to thirty-two before opening them again. "May I see you in the bedroom?"

"No." snapped the detective, immediately. "You absolutely may not."

"Go in the bedroom, Sherlock. Now!" James demanded, raising his voice. He added a hiss. "Or else."

Sherlock raised his voice as well. His husband had no right to demand he transport his _transport_ anywhere he did not want to. Then James had the audacity to attempt to threaten him into submission. Especially with that hiss, the one that always got under his skin, that made him...made him _so-_ "Or else what!" he retorted with a shout.

" _Or else I'll-_ " The ex criminal didn't know what he had been planning to say. Luckily, he never got to say it. He was effectively cut off by a deliberate cough from the sitting room.

Moriarty sighed at their rotund guest. "Afternoon, Mycroft."

Sherlock grunted in annoyance, not bothering to look over at his brother. He stormed to the refrigerator to make his whining son a sandwich and kept the front of his body concealed from sight.

"Afternoon…" Mycroft eyed everything and everyone. The hastily prepared food, his giddy niece and fussy nephew, his brother's turned back, his brother's…. _person_.

"Say hello to your uncle, don't be rude." James instructed the children.

"Unc." Scottie grunted as a hello. The lack of lunch was very appalling and he wasn't interested in company. Also, his uncle smelled like cake but never brought him any.

"Mycroft, daddy has ouches!" Isobel informed him, making her papa grunt and give her a stern look. "And papa wants daddy to hide em." She added, looking away from his warning glare.

"Daddy is _fine_ and I don't want him to hide anything. Although it would be a lot more respectable if he did." James explained.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said calmly. "I wish to speak privately in your bedroom."

"Unfortunately for you, I am not a genie and I do not grant wishes." Sherlock retorted. "Piss off."

"Then I suppose I will have to call up John Watson to give you a very thorough examination for signs of abuse, which you will not be able to refuse." His brother threatened.

Sherlock spun right around to shout. "I do _not_ need an _examination_ and I am _not_ being _abused_!" He faced his brother now. Realizing his mistake, and that he had been tricked into showing his body, he grunted.

"I never said you were." Mycroft rose a brow, eyes scanning over his younger brother's bruises. "But the evidence does appear to speak for itself."

James knew exactly where this was headed and he hurried to put Isobel and Scottie down from the table. He ushered them upstairs. "Go play some loud music."

"Hungry, pa!" Scottie cried.

"I want to watch the row!" Isobel exclaimed.

" _Go._ " James gave them one look and the two headed to the stairs. He stopped Isobel briefly. "You and I will be having a chat later on."

Once the children were upstairs and the adults heard music that wasn't nearly loud enough, the accusations began.

"It appears you are violating the terms of your release." Mycroft said immediately, watching the Irishman's adam's apple bob nervously.

" _No_ he _isn't._ " Sherlock cut in, defending his husband. "He hasn't violated anything!"

"Only you." Mycroft gestured over the 'abuse' with his eyes.

"Everything is consensual, Mycroft. We have a very good sex life and life overall. We are FINE. We are married, we can have sex! Which I recall you so kindly informing me, didn't alarm you."

" _Healthy_ sex doesn't alarm me, Sherlock. This does not appear to be that and I am very alarmed about it, yes." admitted the British government.

"What the hell do you know about health? You scarfed down a jam filled donut on the way to this flat!" The detective waved his arm, drawing attention to the purple stain on the man's tie.

James snorted, shaking his head. While he loved to watch their rivalry in full swing, he couldn't let it escalate. Sherlock was not the best at keeping a conversation with his brother brief and the fatty was so very hard to get rid of these days. Ever since his baby brother started a relationship with the most dangerous criminal in the country, Mycroft's large arse was always hovering over their flat. Honestly, James was sick of the repulsively unpleasant view. Also, insanely irritated, but he had to play nice around big brother. He was always watching.

Mycroft sent a glare over to his younger sibling. "Do not try and distract me, brother. Have you forgotten this has happened before? I am concerned. This man has abused you and broken bone. How can I be sure it is not happening again when the evidence is the same?"

"He is not abusing me." The detective shook his head, adamant. "Not again. He's not put his hands on me in any way that I haven't wanted him to!" Sherlock declared.

Mycroft gave a nod, knowingly. "And that is what concerns me the most."

Sherlock swallowed and said nothing.

James shut his eyes. He ran a stressed hand through his hair. He didn't know it was so obvious. Was it? That they both enjoyed James getting rough in the bedroom, that James liked giving rough treatment just as much as Sherlock liked receiving it.

Perhaps, they were not being as careful as they ought to be. Perhaps, it was that they didn't care. Adrenaline was like pure serotonin to them. It sent buzzing and currents throughout their brains, making it a somewhat better place to be in. They needed distractions constantly and even then, they were never close to enough. The children helped to keep them on some form of a path. They did their best to keep them alive, clothed, and everything else. Isobel and Scott were a good distraction that kept them busy, yet still, were not enough to free them from the chaos of their minds.

"I have...a domination kink." Sherlock said after a moment to his brother. "And I will testify to that in court if I must." He made it very clear that he would stand by his husband if any claims were made against the man.

James' heart, or whatever it was that Jim left behind of it, welled up with love and he wanted to take Sherlock right there against the kitchen table to show his appreciation. He knew he could be abusive. Not on purpose, not really. The personalities in his head were so different and fought for dominance. He tried to keep them controlled but parts of them slipped. They came out and they hurt people. They hurt his husband who did nothing but try to help and love him. Though Sherlock got off on the pain, that wasn't an excuse. He shouldn't be enabling both of their addictions.

James knew he needed to be better. He had to be better and he knew he couldn't use Sherlock as an outlet to let out those urges. He _shouldn't_ , but Sherlock loved it.

Sherlock loved for James to take control, to dominate his body and mind as if he owned them both. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of his mind, James knew that he did.

"I am well aware of that fact." Mycroft said calmly. "I do not have any intentions of filing a claim for the moment."

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock glared, making sure the man knew his presence was not wanted. His brother was infuriating, always sticking his fat nose in places it did not belong and one place he was certain it did not belong was in James' and his bedroom.

"I am here to give fair warning that I will not stand for any kind of unhealthy or potentially harmful behavior. I am simply letting you know that I will be watching for any mistakes." Mycroft informed them sternly. He looked directly at James Moriarty. "Whether they are accidental or not."

"Wonderful." Sherlock directed his brother's attention from James to the stairs. "Get out."

"This matter is not the only matter for which I arrived to discuss." Mycroft told them. He was most satisfied when his brother and (reluctant) brother-in-law allowed him to continue speaking. He decided to remind them of how in debt to him they actually were. The couple seemed to conveniently forget that fact. "I thank you for the lack of protest at my extended presence in this flat, which I have _allowed_ you to purchase- no, allowed you to _manipulate_ from an old woman down on her luck with payment. I will try not to burden you with my company for much longer. You appear to not want me around. It is not as if Moriarty's freedom and whatever little.. _arrangement_..you both have made depends on my doing.."

"Get to the point, Mycroft." Sherlock urged. "We have hungry children to tend to. We would not like for Isobel to bite Scott again. He is up to date in his vaccinations, however we would rather not risk an infection."

"This is more pressing than cannibalistic children, Sherlock. This is of grave importance to me and I would like for you both to treat this with the utmost importance as well." Mycroft Holmes glared between the two men.

"Fine, _vanilla-iceman_." James said, giving his attention. "What is it? What else are you here for other than to worry about how hard I hit your brother's arse during very _hot_ and _satisfying_ sex?"

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a smirk almost as big as the one James' had on.

Mycroft ignored both the statement and the image that followed it. "I am here…to see that everything is prepared for the Christmas gathering taking place in the upcoming months." If he saw the looks of disbelief and annoyance being directed at him, he gave no sign of it. "I overheard it was being held in this flat and invitations have already been sent. Mine must have gotten misplaced. Most fortunately, I have been informed of the event in advance and have arrived to discuss arrangements for the catering and refreshments." Mycroft's eyes lit up and he gave an unsettling smile. "Now, let's discuss flavors of frosting."

The 'British government' made himself comfortable, crossing a leg over the other and leaning back.

Mycroft thought carefully over his next words. "I am partial to chocolate, myself."

Sherlock and James looked at each other, the same thought surfacing in both of their minds. They held the same idea of an appropriate form of retaliation and initiated it immediately.

.

.

.

.

.

After much yelling and threats thrown back and forth, balance was once again restored in 221B. The footsteps that failed to hide their frustration, disappeared down the stairs. The front door to 221B was shut a bit less than politely.

Once they were alone in the sitting room, Sherlock flung his weight forward and onto his husband.

James gave a gasp of surprise. He was suddenly shoved back against the table, Sherlock sealing his mouth in a passionate kiss. When Sherlock pulled away for breath, James was left trying to catch his own. "What's that for?"

"I will die over and over, countless times, before I let anyone extract you from my grasp." Sherlock declared.

James gave a whistle. "Oooh sexy."

A warn chuckle from Sherlock. "It was sexy of _you_ how you told him to shove his cake up his arse and revoked his invitation to Christmas."

James hummed in mock thought. "Hm, I've threatened you too with a wooden spoon before but it never caused you to want to top."

"Be serious." Sherlock gave him a (mostly) unamused look.

"Serious it is, then. But honestly, dear, topping sometimes wouldn't kill you." James told him. He then gave a nonchalant shrug. "I know you didn't want him to come and as your husband, the wonderful one that I am, it's my duty to spare you the headache of idiots who don't _understand_ us. Besides, I want our guests to be able to actually have food. Fatty would eat it all…"

Sherlock frowned, suddenly remembering his own words from last night. He let out a sigh and looked away from his husband's gaze.

"James…"

James' hand came up to rest on his cheek. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"You are.. correct in your assumption." Sherlock said solemnly as he removed the hand from his face. He did not deserve the affection or any love from this wonderful man. "I do love Jim." He shut his eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment in his husband's expression. "I don't know why. Maybe I'm just as _sick_ and _insane_ as he is-"

"Sherlock."

"Let me finish. Please." The detective pleaded, eyes clenched tight. He heard nothing and so he continued. "I love Jim Moriarty." A pause. "However, I married James Moriarty and I love him much, much more. Even though I appear to be displaying the opposite, I would be an idiot to want you to be him. I may find his... _mannerisms_..arousing, but I will not compromise your mental health because of my own twisted fantasies. I am truthful in the words I speak but I understand if you would want to possibly separate, as I have not exactly been attentive to-"

James cut the rambling idiot off with a kiss, pulling Sherlock down and right up against him. He kissed him with a passion and burning desire. He switched their places, turning them around and pushing the detective's back onto the table. Suddenly, he didn't mind topping. He climbed up over him on the table. Their tongues clashed and battled until James pulled Sherlock's into his mouth, sucking tenderly. He clearly won that sparring match, judging by the low groan emerging from the back of the detective's throat.

Sherlock didn't know how he ended up laying with his back on the kitchen table, with James kneeling over him and his curls resting over a sandwich, his legs parted up on the table. All he's aware of in this moment is the warmth of his husband's mouth and the firm grip on his waist that clearly showed domination.

The ex criminal ended their heated kiss and moved along to mouth at Sherlock's neck. His hands tightened their hold around the taller man's waist. "I'm never going to let you go. At our wedding I said I wanted you forever and I meant that, Sherlock...I made a vow to you that I would keep you until the day of my last breath and far after that has passed. I always keep my word. You know that…"

Sherlock arched into the lips and suction moving against his skin. The lips that spoke words that promised him a life without loneliness. They promised security and stability, which were things Sherlock now needed to survive. Sherlock could not be left alone again. He knew it would cause him an early death. He needed to be distracted, from boredom and throwing himself into dangerous situations.

James' vows were a sweet symphony to the detective. The words were like a calming melody and a warm blanket. They soothed him and made him feel protected when all his life he'd willingly put himself in danger. More often than not he was that danger to himself. He remembered all those times waking up in dens and gutters, alive and alone, and he no longer wanted to wake up alive if he was going to be alone and he no longer wanted to be alone if he was going to be alive.

James Moriarty was his security, his floatation device, his keeper, his _everything_ now.

Normally, after hearing James' reassure him of their future and the love James had for him, Sherlock felt relieved for the most part. Yet with every word, he also felt denial because how could this possibly last?

"Why would you choose to love _me_? I'm _selfish_ , _insane_ , _**infuriating**_ , practically a psychopath. I-"

"Stop it." James lifted the man's chin so they were eye to eye. "Open your eyes and look at me."

At first Sherlock turned his head away. He did not want to look, maybe he was afraid momentarily of falling back into their arrangement. It didn't matter, of course, if he was reluctant. James warned him in the beginning that there was no return from this. It was set in stone that he couldn't go back. He wouldn't. Sherlock's face was turned for him.

"I told you to look at me, Sherlock. I don't repeat myself."

The detective opened his eyes then. He had been trying to hold in the wetness but it began to roll down one of his cheeks.

James wiped it away with a thumb, staring straight into the eyes of a man who had so much knowledge and so much pain, just like him. They were the same and they needed each other. Their marriage could not fail, James would not allow it to. He loved Sherlock. Why didn't the man see that? They also had an agreement. He knew Sherlock would never go back on it. He also knew how to ensure that fact.

"You are the best and wisest man, I have ever met. You are a wonder, marvelous, brilliant. You're an anomaly, Sherlock Holmes, a carbon copy who shares my level of intellect." James told Sherlock, staring directly into the multi coloured eyes. "Believe me, when I say, I didn't just _choose_ to have you. I _had_ to have you and make you mine. After I gained control of my own transport I went straight to find you, didn't I? I asked for your help and you saved me from a horrible existence and an early death. How would I not love you? Don't be stupid. Jim is a psychopath and you are _nothing_ like him and you're nothing without _me._ Do you understand? You're perfect. You're my love, my soulmate and pet. I'll never let you go. You'll always be mine, Sherlock. Say it."

This was a renewal of their agreement, their relationship contract. Though James told him in the beginning there would be no second decision of any of it, Sherlock knew that Moriarty was giving him a very small chance to get out, for only a moment.

The detective tried to think for what seemed like an eternity but wasn't very long at all. Time moves slower with James, things feel better, his mind was quieter.

Sherlock was sick of leading his life into ditches and gutters. He lost everything he secured for himself over and over. He did not want to drive forward his own life any longer and as it turned out, James was an excellent driver. He took Sherlock down a road of stability, of normality, or however close to it that they could achieve. What they were doing, being partnered or whatever it was, was good. It was _working_ better than anything Sherlock has ever tried to keep himself in line. A success, in the detective's book.

James knew what he was going to say, of course, before it was said. James knew everything. He knew exactly what to say and how to say it, how to keep Sherlock who so desperately needed to be kept and needed to not be in control. He knew his detective wouldn't back down and leave him, not now, not ever.

"I will always be yours, James."

And there it was. James captured his lips in another kiss, murmuring against them with certainty. "The world is ours, Sherlock." He said quietly before another kiss. _"Ní féidir le rud ar bith stop a chur orainn anois…"_

Sherlock knew every word Moriarty spoke to be true, especially that last bit in the Irish language. Terrified, and incredibly in love, the detective pulled him down into a very desperate kiss, clutching the raven hair between his fingers.

A chuckle escaped James' otherwise occupied lips.

The light kissing gained more depth and detail. The shorter man bit and sucked on his lover's lips, swirling his tongue to part them. He took delight in the way Sherlock moaned and pulled at him, needing him, needing his presence, the proof of his conviction. Their hands were all over, roaming, grabbing, pulling at whatever was in reach.

Sherlock had to stop for breath, resting his head back against the table. He shut his eyes and gave his surrender to the man above.

James was always better at holding his breath, at being in control of everything but his mind, and so he didn't need a pause. Hesitation was not what he was known for. His mouth relocated to his husband's neck, contracting his lip muscles to create a partial vacuum which he then maneuvered over Sherlock's throat. Or in much simpler wording, leaving a multitude of love bites wherever he could on Sherlock's skin. He created new marks and even made older ones darker.

The detective was arching. He held the back of James' head in place. His groans rumbled in the back of his throat. Just when he was about to politely request, (definitely not beg), to be escorted into the bedroom before their children returned to the kitchen, Sherlock felt a presence. He turned his head immediately towards the sitting room. His husband took that opportunity to switch to the other side of his throat. Consistency was always key, James always said.

Sherlock was surprised to see John Watson staring back at him, looking mildly uncomfortable. His bliss and throbbing erection died down very quickly. "James, you may want to stop now."

"Hmm..I definitely don't." James mumbled, going right back to his task, teeth and tongue assaulting Sherlock's pale skin.

"We have a _guest_. We have to-" Sherlock couldn't bite back his groan when teeth bit into a very sensitive part over his larynx. "J _ohn is here_."

Lifting his head, the former criminal saw for himself that the army doctor was standing not ten feet away. "Afternoon, Watson." He greeted kindly, making a show of licking his lips.

"John." Sherlock looked very much alarmed. "Why are you here? Has something happened?" He figured something must be wrong. His friend rarely stopped by these days. John wasn't consistent with visiting, ever since Mary's funeral and even more so after Sherlock married Moriarty.

"I..just thought I'd stop by..." John's eyes trailed over their compromising position. He still couldn't believe any of it. Even after all these years. The dating, the marriage, the children, the...sex. It all alarmed him. "I brought lunch." The doctor held up the plastic bag that he clenched with his fist. "But it seems you both gave up on lunch and went straight for dessert." Why did he say that? He coughed awkwardly, looking away from them. "And once again, I'm very happy I didn't pull Rosie along."

Sherlock raised his brow, confused. Did he miss a visit from John and his goddaughter? "What do you mean again? When did you-"

John cursed himself for his mistake. He promised Jim- _James_ that he wouldn't bring up what he witnessed that night to Sherlock. Luckily, a little girl came hopping haphazardly down the stairs.

"Bored!" Isobel declared. "And Scott is stinky! Hello, Uncle John. You are still boring."

James finally removed himself from his position of being on top of John's best friend, much to John's relief. Although the swelling in the man's trousers was still at half mast.

"I'll take care of it and give you both time to catch up." James picked up his daughter and headed for the stairs. "Not much I can do about the being boring part, however." He giggled along with Isobel.

"Thank you." Sherlock nodded as he slid off the table and stood. He adjusted shirt and tied his robe, patting down his hair to look more presentable. Walking over to sit in his chair, he blinked at John expectantly. "You can sit down, John." He said after a moment.

"Oh, right-" John looked around for a seat. His chair was still where he left it but there were different pillows and blankets draped over it. He remembered this was now Jim's chair and no longer belonged to him.

"James won't mind." Sherlock added.

"Right." John sat down in the seat that used to feel so familiar, inside the house that he used to call home. It was neither now and he didn't think it would be ever again, but Sherlock was happy and (somewhat) safe. That was all that mattered to him. Right?

"It's good to see you, John. You look well. Gained another five pounds."

"It was three "

"Five."

"Four, you wanker." John couldn't stop his grin from forming. He missed this very much. "And I won't go any higher. How've you been? Sorry I haven't come around in a bit. Rosie and work and everything…"

"I understand very well that parenthood doesn't leave much time for pleasantries." Sherlock reassured his friend. "I haven't been out on a case in over a month. My time as of late consists of solving cold cases for Lestrade, minding my offspring, and having sex with my husband."

John tried to hide his apprehension. "Didn't need to know that last one, but I'm glad you understand."

Sherlock lowered his brow, showing a bit of confusion. "I was under the impression that in a friendship, especially between men, it was the custom to brag about their sexual encounters as a form of bonding."

"We are _not_ going to bond over you and Jim having se-" He stopped mid sentence, staring at Sherlock closely now. "What is that?"

"What is what?"

"You've got a bit of...irritation...peeking out of the collar of your gown." John observed, pointing at it. "And it isn't from what I just witnessed in the kitchen." he added. Love bites did not look like this so quickly and safe ones didn't look like this at all.

Sherlock quickly pulled his gown collar up further. "It's fine. Just a bit of a rash. Not the least bit concerning."

"Well, does it hurt? Itch? Did you go to a doctor for treatment? ...What am I saying? Of course you didn't. Let me have a look. I'll give you a script for something to take care of it." The doctor stood, ready to lend a helping hand like any good doctor would.

The detective stood as well. "That's not necessary, John. I'm perfectly fine."

"Well I'll just make sure. Let me see." John urged. He furrowed his brow when Sherlock put distance between them. "I said let me see, please." He said more forcefully.

"You are not entitled to look at my body and you have no right to ask me to shed my clothing and so I will not show you anything." Sherlock said decisively and quickly. It sounded very rehearsed.

John blinked at the random outburst that actually wasn't random at all. He had his suspicions but now he knew for sure. He felt his anger rise but not at Sherlock, never at Sherlock, not for this. This has happened before. He sighed. He hoped and prayed it would not happen again.

"Sherlock, you don't have to stay here. I can help you. Everyone would help you and the kids get away from him."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Get away from whom?"

"From Jim, Sherlock! He's obviously beating you... again! And when I get my hands on him-"

"His name is James, you will _not_ be putting your hands on him, and no, he isn't _beating_ me."

"You said you wouldn't do that." John shook his head. "You said you would never again lie to me about this. That if he was hurting you, you would talk to me. We had an agreement."

"He didn't hurt me, John. I asked for it." The detective waved his hand, inadvertently showing the finger-shaped bruises on one of his wrists. He attempted to cover them again but his best friend grabbed his arm, causing him to wince.

John pulled up the sleeve, looking at Sherlock with sympathy. "This isn't your fault no matter what he says. No one asks to be abused like this."

" _I do."_ Sherlock yanked his arm away, walking away from the shorter man. Why was everyone so insistent on getting involved in what he did in the bedroom? And why were they so quick to paint his husband as some monster? "This visit has been very tedious, please show yourself out of our home." He put up the cold wall he often used as a defense mechanism. He used it especially when someone tried to come between him and James. It happened far too often.

"This was _our_ home first." John reminded him. It seemed Sherlock often forgot that and it stung quite a bit.

"You were the one that left and missed your chance. That is your concern and not mine." said the detective.

John felt like he'd just been slapped in the face and by his best friend, no less. Things have changed a lot since Moriarty came to be a permanent part of everyone's lives, but he now realized the one thing that changed the most, was Sherlock. "What the hell has he done to you?"

Sherlock gave a hard stare. "Everything you apparently could not."

John's anger fell right there on the floor where he stood. He suddenly was overwhelmed with shock, sadness, grief...but he was surprised to find that he didn't feel any regret for how his life turned out. The anger returned at once.

"Everything I couldn't?!" John exclaimed with a laugh. "Sherlock, I've always done _everything_ for you! And now I'm trying to protect you. Jim is-"

"James!' Sherlock shouted.

Needless to say, the doctor ignored it. "He's dangerous and unstable! He's not good for you!"

"Then who is?"

John fell silent, thinking over his words. "I don't know." He decided to say. "But it isn't him. He is going to end up killing you and I cannot sit by and let that happen."

"Then you may stand, and leave, while you are at it. I do not need saving. I am not your damned _damsel in distress!_ " Sherlock said, angrily.

"Sherlock!" John cried in exasperation and surprise.

"You have no say in what happens in my life. You are not my husband, John!"

"No, I don't have a say, and no I'm not your husband," John told him. "But if I was, if I was your husband, I still would not have a say in what you want in life. I wouldn't try to _control you_ and dictate every move you make. That's not what a marriage is."

"It is what _our_ marriage is." Sherlock hissed. "Maybe I need to be controlled and dictated. Maybe that is what is required."

"Is that what you want then? Not a loving husband, but a dictator? That's...insane, Sherlock."

"He loves me. He told me he does."

"And that's enough? Even if he hurts you, even if he hits on you then turns around and tells you he loves you? That isn't love." John looked sad but the detective couldn't tell exactly for whom.

"There is no wrong way to love." Sherlock said. "There are all different kinds of love in the world and never the same kind twice. What would you know about the kind of love James and I share? What would you _possibly_ know about what it takes to love someone like _**me**_!" He yelled.

"I'd know a lot about it." John looked at him, solemnly. "Because, I loved you and I still love you, Sherlock."

The detective gave a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"It's true and you know that." The doctor told the detective. "But he tells you different, doesn't he? He tells you that nobody else loves you like he does, that he's all you'll ever need."

"Stop it." Sherlock warned. "Stop talking."

"Does he not do that? I've heard him. I've heard him say you're the _same person_ , that you're _meant to be together_ , that you are _exactly the same."_

" _Stop it,_ John."

"But that's not true. You know it's not true." John saw the moment his friend froze, no longer trying to refrain him from speaking. It was his naivety that pushed him to say what he's been thinking all along. He bit his tongue before, at the altar, at the birthing of both Isobel and Scott, at the first time he saw Sherlock with a black eye, and what good did it do? His best friend was still living with a maniac and being hurt before his eyes. He refused to allow it to go on. He wouldn't lose Sherlock again to this man. "He says he'll take care of you, which he has, but is it worth it? Staying when you know one day he could roll over with a temper and that'd be the end. He's a monster, Sherlock. He is and he always will be. He's manipulating you. How can the most observant man in the world not know that? _How_ can you not see that? He's a psychopathic murderer and you sleep beside him, _completely_ vulnerable. It boggles me, it really does. You know what he's capable of, what he's done and still you stay by his side. Why?"

"He's my husband." said the taller man, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to say. It gave John nausea. He then added, "and you are a hypocrite." There was no need for unnecessary details. John knew exactly what he was referring to.

"I was going to leave." John defended himself, immediately. He had been. He was planning on leaving her before she was killed. "You knew that."

"I am aware of what I knew then." Sherlock told him. "However, now that there is evidence countering your claim, along with the fact that you weren't actually the one to part from the relationship, what I knew then is rendered irrelevant."

"She _died_ , Sherlock."

"Which means that she was the one to _leave_ , John."

John took a breath out of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Insane. All of you. How I got stuck with three psychopaths, I have no idea." He said in his usual way.

Sherlock felt pain in his chest at John's words. A psychopath, that's what John said. He's repeated it time and time again. John never used to call him that. Now it seemed to be all John ever said. All because Sherlock married James and moved on.

The detective did not understand it. He didn't retaliate like this when John married and moved on. Sherlock did everything in his power to make sure John was happy and had his support. John's behavior was a clear double standard and it made Sherlock physically hurt inside. He wanted it to stop because he could not handle rejection from John Watson. He never could. It destroyed him every time. James and practically everyone knew this about him, that he wasn't right without John, except John. Though Sherlock was adamant that no one could be that oblivious. John had to have known already, had to have known all along.

Sherlock wished his best friend would stop hurting him over and over. It was too much, once again, and he commenced with his usual routine of isolation and began to shut John out.

"I am very sorry you had the misfortune of meeting such an abundance of individuals with psychopathic tendencies, including myself. I'm sure that if you had a chance to turn back the time we shared, you would have taken the opportunity to 'steer clear'."

John's brow furrowed. "Now wait a minute, Sherlock-"

"While it is too late for that, it certainly isn't too late for this. To tell you that my relationship is no one's business, and, as hard as it is to believe for some _very_ odd reason, it isn't yours either." Sherlock looked at John with a cold stare.

It was one John hasn't seen before. Not on the detective at least. He was used to the cold hearted stare when Sherlock put up this wall to block him out, but this wasn't it. It was a real look of hatred and it caused John pain. Especially since he assumed the hate was meant for him.

Sherlock added sudden death to the fatal wound. He was far past insult to injury at this point. "You were my blogger and colleague. You are not and never will be anything more. I am married to James and he is all I will ever need. I do not need you as my keeper. That role is adequately filled and your application rightfully denied. Far too late, you've missed the deadline."

John exhaled through his nostrils but it did nothing to ease the complete outrage he felt in that moment. He let it out, mouth moving way before he even thought about the words coming out of them. "Is it good he has you then? You two must be a match made in heaven. Was he right from the beginning?" John demanded, not knowing if he actually wanted these questions answered or if they were rhetorical. If he even meant what he was saying at all. "Are you exactly the same as Jim Moriarty? Not caring about any possible consequences for your destructive and insane actions, leaving a _bloody_ blood trail wherever you go, leaving people in ruins. Maybe _I'm_ the most least observant man in all of London and _I'm_ the one who's been fooled this entire time. Been taking me for a ride then, have you Sherlock? I have half a mind to get off of it. Throw myself if I can."

Sherlock's eyes widened but he didn't say a word. His body, his mind, they felt numb with each word John spoke and he found that he didn't want to listen to his friend anymore. He wanted John to leave. He wanted to see his husband immediately for reassurance. He wondered when he became so emotionally dependent on Moriarty, and when John began to see him as a monster too, as a fake too. Though, James wasn't a monster nor a fake. Jim was the monster and the altar was not around. Why did no one understand? John always used to listen and try to understand the things Sherlock explained but not anymore. John treated him differently now that him and James were together. Everyone did. He expected it from the others but not John, never from John.

"You may do as you please, John." said Sherlock. "I certainly did not stop you from going through your own _escape hatch_ after I returned."

"Are you serious? What, is this revenge for Mary? Is that what this all is? The marriage, double the children, the public displays of inappropriate affection?"

 _"This is_ _ **not**_ _about_ _ **you**_." Sherlock seethed with rage. " _Nothing_ I have _ever_ done since I have married James has _ever_ been about you. I recall you abiding by that in particular when you were wed off."

"Oh my _god_." John exclaimed in disbelief. "Everything is a game to you, a ploy, a tactic just to prove a bloody point! To be correct! Do you take anything serious? Have you _ever_ taken anything serious? Do you actually care about _anything_ other than your own selfish needs? _Ever since_ you've been with him you've become more and more of a-"

James walked down the last few steps and into the sitting room. "I would advise against finishing that sentence, Doctor Watson."


End file.
